As a child, I used to sit inside the untamed fields of Spain, surrounded by wildflowers and the deep, dry scent of piñon trees. There, I’d create a pretend church, a place of worship, in nature. I was merely eight years old, so I had no concept of churches, nor did I of ceremony. But I was calling out—like Rumi in “the moan of the dog for its master”—for a place inside nature’s intricate web. Today, the wisdom that lies inside these concentric circles of my older self can see things more clearly: how my indigenous soul longed to come home to herself inside nature, to know she belonged and was part of a holy beauty and perfection. That field continues to be my mother, for she awakened my indigenous soul, even after homes and walls cover her skin, hiding her wildness below. In my late thirties, after losing touch with this part of myself, I was drawn to the word duende. So much so that I wrote a novel, Child of Duende: A Journey of the Spirit, inspired by this word that the Spanish poet Garcia Lorca described as the “Spirit of the Earth that one must awaken in the remotest mansions of the blood”. Isn’t that what our nature truly is…nature herself…this essence of duende that moves through us? Isn’t it nature who offers her mirror for us to see who we truly are, especially when we feel disconnected? As a teacher in the schools, I’ve seen children mirroring that same longing that I once had—to belong, to feel a sense of place and home on our earth. But far too often we seem to look for that inside structures and systems that are separate from nature. When we stand in the forest, though, and hear the birds, the scuffling sounds, and branches breaking inside the wind, we begin to find our place. We learn from the tree that does not judge itself for being crooked or from the bird who doesn’t care if it sings off key or from the ant who doesn’t hide in its smallness. Nature just is. Every being is necessary for the larger symphony called life. What if we stop seeing life through our eyes, and instead through the ever-changing eyes of water, or the humble reed grass as one of my students has done? What if we learned to see our nature through the eyes of nature? Would we find home for our indigenous souls again? I’d like to invite you to take a moment to look at nature, not as a visitor, but as a part of her. What does she see, feel, touch, sense, hear? What is her story and where do you live inside her story? We explore these questions and more in my workshop Stories from the Earth. Here is a sample of student work from last summer’s workshop. May these nature-connected moments inspire your heart on this day: A cedar leaf fell from way up in the sky, and it landed right next to reed grass. He (reed grass) thought of how high cedar leaf fell from. ‘I grow and I grow, and I grow, but I only get to be this teeny, tiny, plant. Why can’t I be like the cedars and grow so tall that my branches touch the sky, and the birds want to land on the branches, and the wind blows mightily through my pine needles? –Jill Farrant (see the storytelling video creation here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMD9jBNBMrk) In the heart of Mexico City, a little girl named Callita watched the full moon. ‘Why does the moon follow me wherever I go?’ she wondered. ‘It looks at me with its big eyes and I just rush under the canopy of houses and shelters to get rid of her’…. ‘Why are you afraid of me?’ the moon asked from the immense sky. —Claudia Zamudio Hi! Hello! Look at me! Did you see that? I wish people would look at me. I have so many things to show them. I’m not just a ball of light, you know. I hate when people stay in their little boxes when my light shines brightest. It really makes me sad… The moon always runs away from me. I just want to play with her. —Miguel Zamudio, 9 years old. From my heart to yours. For the Earth Michelle Adam, OMEC Contributor   I have always been fascinated by fire. Even as a youth living in the city, I found ways to have flames be part of my experience, like regularly pilfering candles from the dining room table just so I could have a bit of living flame in my room. During my teens, my family moved to the Catskills, and it was then when fire became much more prevalent and a staple in my life.Afterall, you cannot exactly have a raging bonfire in a city park without drawing unwanted attention. With our move to the wilder places of the mountains, a fire was seen as a common part of life. As I matured into an adult, fire took on a deeper meaning for me. I often wondered what our early ancestors felt when they were first able to summon fire as opposed to gathering it off the landscape from a lightning strike or the naturally occurring wildfires that we still have today. When I am out on the landscape and have the need for fire, I usually employ the tried-and-true method of a ferro rod and some birch bark tinder. When I want something more contemplative or ceremonial, I call fire the way that some of ancestors did by friction with a bow drill kit. Using such a kit takes some practice and patience but there is a certain focused aspect to doing it that is incredibly settling. Prepping the tinder bundle, gathering the wood of assorted sizes, and laying out the parts of the bow drill set in a respectful and intentional way turns the calling of fire into a sacred act. The parts of the drill set have each taken on their own meaning for me over time, something I have discussed in previous essays. Grandfather Fire is a magical being and considered our first ancestor. It was fire in the form of lightning that sparked life here in the arms of Pachamama, Mother Earth. I have heard it said that fire is the one element that cannot be corrupted. Water, air, and earth can all be polluted if neglected for their sacredness. Fire’s shifting ephemeral form always maintains its transformative purity. Throughout our known history, fire has played an essential role in our growth as a society. It has kept us warm, cooked our food, forged our tools, and provided us with a setting for our gatherings. Fire is also within us as the holy molecular chemistry that is our breathing, digesting, and musing. It is not a coincidence that fire came up for me this February. In my own ancestral lineage fire was a large part of a traditional ceremonial life. Bonfires were lit to celebrate the returning light and the earliest manifestations of Spring. Livestock were driven between fires to ensure their health for the coming year and the ashes of fires were inspected for good omens. One of the things that I have done for many years is to collect a bit of char from each fire that I have had or prepared for others. I grind it down to powder and keep it in a jar. I start each new fire with a little of that char so that the energy from each fire is passed along and then I offer a bit to each person that I have shared fire with so that they may take that energy and carry it forward themselves. I would like to end with an invitation. Have your own fire. Feel its warmth. Look at its light. What images or feelings emerge from the dancing flames for you? It does not have to be a big fire. There are times when a humble candle will do. What does fire mean for you? From my heart to yours, Christopher T. Franza, OMEC board of Directors 
The winter landscape outside my window looks bleak. I see white snow, the dull browns of dead plants, the angles of bare trees, and not much else. When I wander through it, though, the landscape reveals its bones. A few years ago, I began a project of “rewilding” the acre of land around my house. Because I have added native plants and allowed others to grow wherever birds and breeze dropped their seeds, vegetation that provides food and shelter for wildlife is prevailing. The gardens do not look tidy, especially in fall when dead stalks stand among unraked leaves, but my non-human neighbors have little care for the aesthetics of the place. When the snow piles up, those dead stalks hold their dried seedheads above it, which allows black-capped chickadees, one of our winter birds, to dine on the seeds. Evening primrose seems to be the birds’ favorite. Chicory pokes its head through the snow and burdock’s burrs hook me when I walk by. As the stalks of these tall plants collapse, they create tangles of brush that shelter birds and other critters from the wind and snow. Mice shelter under the ground-covering wintergreen and nibble its berries. Red squirrels dine on the cones of the eastern hemlock. Wild turkeys pick through the low-growing plants for leftover fruit. Seedlings of cedar, maple, oak, and birch, left to grow wherever they took root, are browse for deer. Years ago, before I learned how native plants support wildlife, I read that gardens should have bones. Landscape plants chosen for the look of their bare branches or stalks were meant to be added to the garden to provide interest in winter. Those, along with evergreen shrubs pruned into topiary, created a garden design that was pleasing to look at year-round, yet no thought was given to the true purpose of bones – to provide support and structure for an organism or the whole ecosystem of the garden, even in the depths of winter. Like many gardeners, I can get caught up in the very human tendency to make my life look good on the outside and neglect the more essential structure of my being. Winter invites a pulling inward and a dropping of the mask of color and flash that I show the world the rest of the year. Gazing through the window, I contemplate my own barren landscape. I get down to the bones. What is my essence? What inner resources can I call on to get through the season? If I am alone, trapped by snow and ice, and unable to reenergize off the feedback of others, what will sustain my spirit? It is not easy, when the garden is in full bloom, to think of what will be left behind in winter. It is necessary, however, to nurture the bones. Just as the remains of plants provide for birds, squirrels, and other animals, the practices I cultivate throughout the year provide for my physical and emotional health in winter. Meditation, gentle movement, and nourishing foods help sustain me and support introspection through this seemingly lifeless season. And, of course, time in nature reconnects me to the quiet vitality that exists in the bones. From my heart to yours, Debbie Philp 
I have lived most of my life in the Catskill Mountains of New York and still, winter here can be challenging. Most years, winter arrives early and stays late. I find that each year I lean a little deeper into the opportunities that come with the colder months of the year. Frigid temperatures, snow, and ice, freeze the landscape and only the hardiest creatures of the more than human world venture out. Deciduous trees, bare of leaf, creak and groan in a wind that sometimes feels like it is never going to stop. Nature is tucked in and bedded down waiting for the arrival of spring. When I view the landscape, whether it is my own interiority or what I am feeling into in the external environment, I am reminded that there is no duality here. Winter is the season where I most feel my perceived boundary of self and other loosen its grip. When I walk in the forest, my footsteps muted by the snow, the only sounds I hear are my own breathing and the swishing of branches in the air. Are they not the same? My sense of immediacy becomes palpable when I move through the frosted forest. The winter mindset of contemplation and introspection meets the glistening brilliance around me, and something dissolves in my awareness. I am no longer looking out at something from "in here". I feel myself as nature experiencing itself. The water running beneath the ice is the same water that makes up 70 percent of my body. The oxygen I breathe in from the trees and the carbon dioxide they breathe in from me is an exchange that has been going on since the beginning. The earth under my feet is made of the same elements that make up my bones, skin, teeth, and hair. And they too will all return to the earth in due time. My consciousness is not tied to the physical "me". It is the same conscious field that all of creation shares. Where can there possibly be separation when every single cell and thought is tied to the other in some way? It is no surprise that joy is a word that is frequently heard at this time of year. The connotations may be different for each person's individual experience, but joy is the perfect word. Feeling a deep visceral connection to our experience of ourselves in the natural world is joyful. So, I invite you to spend some time outside. While winter may be what moves me it may be otherwise for you. You may notice the summer’s heat and warmth, the spring greening, or the autumn harvest. Or the starry sky, a beach, or a desert may call to you. There is only one way to find out. Lean into the natural world, wherever you are, and you just might find it leaning back. From my heart to yours, Christopher T. Franza OMEC Board of Directors 
In the northern hemisphere, winter is fast approaching. While my beloved squirrels and I are out on all but the coldest of days, many of the animals I see during the warm months seem to disappear. As I contemplate their varied approaches to winter, I am awed by the creative energy that helps life survive. Thanks to their ability to fly, most of the birds migrate to warmer climates. You might assume the other animals that vanish are hibernating since they do not have the means to travel south. That is only partially true. True hibernators spend the winter months in deep sleep and are difficult to arouse. They lower their body temperatures so they can sleep for long periods without expending metabolic resources. In my region, only bats, groundhogs, and two species of jumping mice are true hibernators. Bears do sleep deeply for long periods in their dens, but they are easily awakened and may even go outside if it is warm enough. Because they are still burning calories, bears rely on fat stores to avoid losing muscle mass. Many parks and preserves have been helping the public understand and appreciate bear behavior. “Fat Bear Week” (Explore.org) happens every October. Viewers vote on which bear is the biggest and most ready to survive the long winter. Chipmunks also spend the winter tucked away, but unlike the bears they only sleep for a day or two at a time. In between, they get up and raid their underground food stores. The garter snakes who hang around my yard in summer also sleep but add a community approach to staying warm. They get together in cavities and coil in a big heap to keep their body temperatures from dropping to a dangerous level. The hibernaculum may include more than one hundred snakes. Like the bears, they emerge on mild days to soak up some sun and bring that warmth back to the group. Turtles have a unique way of coping with cold. They settle into the bottom of ponds and lakes and slow their metabolism, like hibernators. Turtles do not sleep, however, and have been spotted moving around under the ice. Turtles breathe air just like we do, but they can hold their breath for months! Whenever I am out for a winter wander, and come across clear ice, I look for turtles underneath. Like turtles, most frogs hang out in the bottom of ponds. Wood frogs have a completely different approach - they freeze solid! Wood frogs produce a sugar syrup that fills their organs and acts as an antifreeze. Water fills the spaces in between their organs and becomes ice, turning them into frog-cicles. In spring, the frogs come out of suspended animation and go on their way like nothing happened. The more I learn about the beings around me, the more awe I feel. While on my winter wanders, I send blessings to all the unseen beings who have found wonderful ways to cope with the elements. From my heart to yours, Debbie Philp  Attention is the beginning of devotion. – Mary Oliver from Upstream  Photo by Drew Wall, Maui, HI Dear Friend, We share with you here some beautiful writing from the 6-week virtual autumn gathering of the nature-inspired writing program, Remembering Our Place in the Sacred Circle of Life. Participants came together from Massachusetts, Michigan, Texas, Colorado, California, and Hawaii. During our weeks of sharing together each person was encouraged to spend 5-minutes or more outside every day to inspire their writing and deepen their relationship with the natural world. Over time, they noticed things that had been in plain sight, but nearly invisible until they slowed down to observe, listen, sense, and engage. Poet Mary Oliver’s words, “Attention is the beginning of devotion,” guided us throughout our exploration. What if the simple act of giving attention to something, or someone, increased our devotion, love, and compassion? What if our attention helped the Earth, each other, and our own deep feelings of grief? We found that once we gave our attention to the natural world, our writing reflected our burgeoning devotion. We hope these writings inspire you to deepen your own relationship with nature. From my heart to yours, Christina Burress Board Member, OMEC Mahalo Honu by Leah Naomi Paddle, paddle, paddle Ugh, this wave passes Oh! hello sweet sea turtle Your shell so buoyant you easily float, like me on my surfboard Just chilling here at the surface Ok, I’ll try again Paddle, paddle, paddle Ugh, this wave passes Oh! you’re still floating here Your little round head poking up for air, while we make eye contact Not a word you say “Go For It!” Ok, I’ll try again Paddle, paddle, paddle Yes, yes, yes this wave! Oh! this feeling, so stoked! Flying on the surface of the ocean, propelled by wind energy And I say “Mahalo Honu” Prayer of Gratitude by Julia Gantman Praise to the grass for its soft blanket of blades that cushion my feet as I walk barefoot to the mailbox. Praise to the sky for being infinite every time I look up to embrace it with my eyes. Praise to the air which surrounds me like an invisible shield, protecting me from suffocating on my own thoughts. Praise to the fire in my belly which helps me digest and burn bright in my fierceness. Praise to my water bottle that quenches my thirst. And praise to my friends who gave me these gifts. Right Now by Karolina Syrovatkova I could get lost, right now, in the playfulness of the mountain stream, In the interplay of light and water, In the warmth of father Sun imbuing my every cell. I could get lost, right now, In my thoughts and the kaleidoscope of emotions they bring to the surface. They, too, imbue every cell of my light-filled body. I could get lost, right now, in the emptiness of this white page, a ramble of my longing soul out of which the words of inspiration flow. In every second, my heart can beat to the drumming of the universe. In every second, my spirit can soar to new heights like an eagle following the currents of the wind. In every second, I have an opportunity to explore, acknowledge and relax into the fullness of my life, in all its terror and Beauty. Sacred Primordial Forest by Diane Masullo Luring with transcendent connection. Ancient spires of lore and spruce; Powerful, sinister, seductive. Drawing us inward, revealing hidden identities In cunning disguises. Peaking from the forest floor, Scattered fairy rings, ghost like umbrellas on thin stalks, Speckled domes. The food of Gods and Royalty. Suddenly, a weighted consciousness, an understanding. A collective breath, as one. Ghost Forest by Laura A. Long Gray-black bones of coastal pines stab a Carolina-blue sky along a coast where once the Algonkian trod, generations before the English. Tall and stark, these specters stand witness to once abundant reciprocity of pine, woodpecker, red fox, and bear-- before the ocean’s rise salted the land. Most remain single, truncated posts, ghostly shadows of past glory. Others raise bare arms to heaven in last desperate, ragged protest. The ocean has no agenda here; she goes where she must, takes all in her wake. But can you hear from below this sodden soil the eerie sound of wailing? About this poem Olympic Mountain EarthWisdom Circle celebrates its 10th Anniversary this year on December 7th. We hope you’ll join us for a Live Online Anniversary Event. More details here: Facebook Event
As the heat of summer begins to cool, one distinct sign of autumn in the Pacific Northwest is the display of spiders spinning their webs. It happens overnight as if they all decide in unison, tonight is the night. And just like that, at the sun’s first light, thousands of webs, with their tiny creators clinging to them, appear in the oddest places — across sidewalks, attached to broom handles, and adorning car doors and side mirrors. Sometimes the first build isn’t in the best of places for a forever home, but this little creature is resilient. Araneus diadematus, also known as the Cross Orb Weaver, is non-venomous and completely harmless to humans and is the most common web-weaving spider in Western Washington State. We share gardens, walkways, and occasionally kitchen space, with these little creatures. We know how to compost and recycle, but could not, with our best efforts, come close to the radical recycling they perform every day. What if I told you, Yesterday, I took apart my house, board from nail, and ate it for dinner. Then I reused the digested material to rebuild it again — better than before. And I plan to do the same thing again tonight. You’d say, impossible! But not so for little Araneus. From the time it reaches maturity in the mid-summer, to its death in early winter, the Cross Orb Weaver will have eaten and rebuilt its web over 100 times by rolling it up into a ball, consuming it, and then re-using the silk proteins. We may never know the inner working of the minds of spiders, but if they could speak, I imagine they might tell a story of life in the web. One of impermanence, resilience, disappointment, joy, growth, and of building life and home from a source that will truly never run dry — from within. Spring will come again, and with it, a new generation of Orb Weavers, protected from the winter rains by a thick swatch of silk — a legacy made of the same threads their mother used to spin a hundred webs.
Olympic Mountain EarthWisdom Circle celebrates its 10th Anniversary this year on December 7th. We hope you’ll join us for a Live Online Anniversary Event — Details to be announced soon! Blessings, Sayre Herrick OMEC Board Member 
My daily meditation time is rarely quiet. I sit outdoors at the edge of the woods and seek stillness while listening to chipmunks. The eastern chipmunk (Tamias striatus) is a rodent in the family Sciuridae (squirrel) and is found in the eastern half of the United States and southern Canada. “Chipmunk” is an adaptation of their name in Ojibwe, one of the indigenous languages of the Algonquins, which means, “descends trees headlong,” as chipmunks and other squirrels are apt to do. Unlike tree squirrels, however, chipmunks spend most of their time on the ground and live in burrows. The land near where I sit has many holes, each belonging to a different chipmunk. Chipmunks are solitary creatures and vigorously defend their territories, so each tunnel heads off in a different direction. I often witness one chipmunk chasing another and hear a quick chorus of trills and squeals that identifies a territorial dispute. Despite this, chipmunks are community minded when a predator shows up. Instead of a safer silent retreat, a pursued chipmunk lets out a trill while running to warn the others. When there is danger, the chipmunks are usually the first to sound the alarm. A rapid chuck-chuck-chuck warns of a predator above, such as a hawk. A slower chip-chip indicates the danger is on the ground, perhaps a fox. Once one starts, other chipmunks join in, spreading the warning through the woods. The squirrels and birds listen, too. Soon red squirrels are chattering, and grey squirrels are barking from the safety of the trees. Fading blue jay caws indicate their retreat. Species normally squabbling over food and space, work together to spread the word. While I have no fear of hawks or foxes, listening to the chipmunks helps me tune into the activity in the woods and reminds me to engage in active listening throughout my day. Most humans rely heavily on their visual sense, but I have found that to feel part of all life around me, it requires more than just observation. To practice this in human conversation, I close my eyes against the visual distractions and hear both the words being spoken and the emotional tone. Actively listening provides deeper connection and understanding. When Lori Ferry’ and I, the HEARTH project co-directors, expanded the virtual circles to monthly offerings, I was glad we stayed with an audio-only format. Without needing to worry about what you would see, we could put all our attention on the words. When others facilitate, I close my eyes, listen deeply, and drop into the experience, feeling as much a part of our global OMEC community as I feel part of the natural world that includes the chipmunks.
I invite you to explore the programs offered through the Olympic Mountain EarthWisdom Circle (OMEC). Each of these programs encourage a sacred and responsible relationship with the Earth, supporting us to move wakefully through personal and planetary change. Blessings, Debbie Philp OMEC Board Member
Observations: A Summer Travel Log We are well past the Summer Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere, but one thing that is enchanting about June in Iceland (and the auspicious time of the Solstice) is how the long days and the absence of dark and starry nights allowed us to experience the land of fire and ice on our flight to Europe. Icelanders embrace this time of the year with endless outdoor activities, while nature’s majesty brings back to life the vivid colors of the mountains and the exquisite skyscape of the Midnight Sun. From our plane, we could see the steam rising from active volcanos and the vast landscape being held by deep hues of purple fields of nootka, or Alaskan lupine. Iceland’s winters are long and dark, so when the light returns it is a joyous celebration among the local people, and not-so-local folks, too. Summer Solstice in the land of the Midnight Sun offers hot springs of the fiery volcanoes and tantalizing turquoise waterfalls to explore and ponder. The Icelanders don’t take their landscape for granted. The same is true in Denmark, our recent destination, a place where they cherish beautiful green spaces and honor the nature beings who live there. Copenhagen was our final destination and although the history is rich and the culture steeped in tradition, honesty and happiness, it was the green spaces that deeply called me. Fredericksburg Garden was my favorite. The centuries old park is held by old growth trees and a landscape filled with a colony of blue heron resting in large well-constructed nests woven into a platform with a saucer-shaped cup and lined with pine needles, moss, reeds, dry grass, mangrove leaves, and small twigs. I managed to get a quick glimpse of a hatchlings bluish eyes peeking under the edge of its mother’s wing. This experience reminds me of my own backyard on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state. A place where nature is dominant with her lush green forests, cool coastal breezes and the deep fjord estuary known by names such as Puget Sound, Straight of Juan De Fuca and the Salish Sea. Where I live, it’s the fawning season. Oftentimes, I see the black tailed mother’s leading their spotted babies to the best places for sweet red clover, grasses, delicious blackberries, and their all-time favorites: flowers found in well cared for gardens of the local inhabitants. There is other wildlife too! I hear a raucous of crows, then I see a raccoon scurrying down a tree after stealing an egg, then a magnificent bald eagle soaring and spiraling overhead while hummingbirds flit from one feeder to the next. I ponder the thought of how a fish in a fishbowl must feel observing the natural world from the inside of a large, orbed window - not much different from the windows of my home. I invite you to explore the programs offered through the Olympic Mountain EarthWisdom Circle (OMEC). Each of these programs encourage a sacred and responsible relationship with the Earth, supporting us to move wakefully through personal and planetary change. From my heart to yours, Lori Ferry' OMEC Board Member 
“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything… It is the presence of time, undisturbed. – Gordon Hempton; acoustic ecologist In early June, I flew to Colorado to attend a memorial service. On the first night, I stayed with friends who live up the mountain at 9,000 feet. The 6-inches of snow that had fallen two days before my arrival was all but gone. The meadow next to their home burst with dandelion blossoms and was patrolled by a community of robins who yanked earthworms out of the soil and gobbled them down like they hadn’t eaten in months. But the main attraction was the charm of ruby-throated hummingbirds. From the kitchen window, I watched the zigzagging morning rush hour of green iridescent flashes around the sugar-water feeders that rested on the outdoor table. My friend suggested that we go outside and sit with the birds. She showed me how to place my hands like parentheses around the feeder. The idea here is that the birds can land on our hands, and we can feel their delicate feet and nearly weightless bodies when they finally pause to drink. Even though I was a stranger, they didn’t hesitate to fly in like torpedoes then hover, tilt their heads, take off, come back, hover again and eventually land. Each bird, maybe 30 in total, (though who can count at that speed) seemed to fly in their own choreographed movements of darts and dives and all without colliding. It was exhilarating like a fireworks show and I responded with oohs and ahhs, but the vibration of my voice sent the birds scattering like I’d pulled out a drum and beat it. When I quieted into silence, they returned to drink. Then I felt my nervous system drop into a quiet purr. All the grief I carried with me in anticipation of the memorial and all the stress and hustle of traveling dropped away. Something else happened. I sensed that I shifted into nature’s time, like I’d plopped into a slow river on an innertube and drifted away. I know it sounds contradictory – the quick darting and the slow river drifting – but I assure you it’s possible to hold these two feelings at once. Then my awareness was fine-tuned to the alive-ness of my surroundings. My breathing slowed and I seemed to merge with the place. I sensed and was able to hold all at once – the forest, meadow, hummingbirds, robins, worms, and the line of ants marching to the droplets of sugar water pooling under the table. People often say that time slows in experiences like this, but it felt time-less. I could have stayed there all day. I even said to my friend, half-jokingly, that hummingbird therapy should be a thing. The truth is, we all have access to this sort of “therapy”; it’s just a matter of dropping in. So when I attended the memorial two days later, which was held outdoors on a rooftop overlooking town, I took a moment to tune into the place: the jagged Flatirons, leafing cottonwoods, giant red poppies, and a soaring hawk just overhead, remembering that I could hold both – the quick darting and the slow river drifting – the grief and the gratitude of knowing such a wonderful person during this lifetime. I invite you to explore the programs offered through the Olympic Mountain EarthWisdom Circle (OMEC). Each of these programs encourage a sacred and responsible relationship with the Earth, supporting us to move wakefully through personal and planetary change. From my heart to yours, Christina Burress OMEC Board Member  |
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